The Man Who Can't Be Moved
by Geeyaa
Summary: There is only so long he can spend drinking his sorrows away before his liver eventually calls it a day and fucks off to liver-heaven. Or something. Erik doesn't understand why Charles left him, or why he thinks he was sleeping with someone else. It was like he had vanished from the face of the planet the moment he had walked out the door.
1. Chapter 1

There is only so long he can spend drinking his sorrows away before his liver eventually calls it a day and fucks off to liver-heaven. Or something. He knows - _he knows_ - that drowning himself in alcohol won't do jack-shit for the situation he's found himself in. But he has to do something, right?

It's not like he has a worse deal of it than most; he has a well-paid, stable career in engineering, a doctorate in civil engineering from MIT, and a great apartment that's too big for just two people… Not that two people live there anymore. Erik has a propensity of messing up relationships; the mere fact he hasn't spoken to his father in ten years is proof of that. But he _swore_ to himself that he would not fuck up the amazing, marvellous, miraculous, wonderful, _perfect_ relationship he had with Charles Xavier. That plan went about as well as Napoleon's idea to invade Russia.

It started well; Erik had met Charles at the opening of New York Public Library's new 'Central Library Plan' in the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building on 42nd street. Work on the building had gone well, and Erik had been pleased with the outcome; the designs Norman Foster had supplied him with had needed little tweaking in the long run. It had been a pretty good day for him already, only to be made better when a short man with sparkling blue eyes approached him with the question, "What's the difference between an architect and an engineer?" Those types of questions usually irritated him, but something about the way Charles ("Oh, do call me Charles, Mr. Xavier is far too formal don't you think?") had nodded along, his interest palpable. (He had only realized later that Charles was the famous geneticist, Doctor Charles Xavier who was frequently on the cover of the New York Times magazine for some new discovery or other.) His insightful and intelligent questions only endeared Erik to the man more, and it wasn't long before they were deep in conversation, oblivious to the rest of the party around them.

Erik had made sure to give Xavier his number that night; and he hadn't been disappointed. Their relationship grew out of their friendship, like it was the natural progression of things. "Evolution," Charles would say, did say, to anyone who asked.

It was almost expected, according to Charles' sister, who'd cackled when she'd heard they were finally dating, explaining, "You two have been dating since you laid eyes on each other - Except you weren't having sex."

The sex.

Oh, God, the sex was incredible. Charles just _knew_. The man seemed to have found all his undiscovered erogenous zones within the first five minutes; kissing, stroking and sucking in places that he would never have thought caused pleasure, mapping out his body like there was something he hadn't discovered the other times he'd done it. It wasn't as if he was any better - Charles was the epitome of beauty; all soft edges and pale skin that contrasted nicely with his dark brown hair and his too red lips. He had eyes that smiled – as blue as the sky – and just as cheerful as a summer's day. He was everything Erik was not – Charles was messy, unorganized whereas he was neat. He was compassionate and seemed to understand people on a fundamental level, which baffled Erik, who was stoic and often rude and 'emotionally constipated' – Thanks for that, Raven.

It was these faults which landed him here, in this pokey little pub on 12th Street, sharing the bar with all the other sad-sacks drinking themselves to death and nursing a pint of the piss-water they called beer. They'd been living together for three months before Charles had turned around and said, with a voice as sad as the point in Bambi that even the hardest motherfucker cries at, "Erik, I can't take this anymore. You're distant; you never talk to me, I don't know what you want from me. You're _always_ working late, and I have no idea if you're at work or out sleeping with someone else because you turn your phone off,"

By this point, Charles was sobbing, and Erik was standing dumbstruck with the OJ carton halfway raised to his open mouth, "Do you even love me anymore?"

Like a stupid, dumb fuck, Erik hadn't answered; instead, had just stared at Charles as if he'd grown another head. It seemed that his boyfriend had taken that to be his answer, and without another word, he had left. Erik came home from work the next evening to find all Charles' stuff missing from their apartment.

A month later, Erik was still kicking himself. He loved Charles, he would happily be like one of those sappy princes from a Disney movie and tell him that he'd loved him from the moment he'd met him. Which wasn't true, because love at first sight was bullshit – but in this case, it had been pretty damn close.

Still, Erik had _no_ idea where Charles had got the idea that he was sleeping with someone else from; frankly, it reminded him of one of those crappy romance movies where the woman got all jealous because her precious hubby borrowed a book from their next door neighbour's wife. All that cul-de-sac drama – He didn't know what to do with it!

But he wanted to fix it – he did! He'd tried everything; there were probably more calls left on Charles' voicemail than he'd ever received in his life, never mind the fuck-ton of emails Erik had sent _this afternoon_ begging Charles to call him, write, reply, send him frikin' smoke signals, _anything_.

Charles never did though; it was like he had vanished from the face of the planet the moment he had walked out the door. Which made the fact that Erik had only been working late to save up for the best, handmade engagement ring money could buy sting just that little bit more.

Erik supped his 'beer' and sighed, for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. It was unfortunate that he could hold his liquor, because all he really, really wanted to do right now was drink until he was unable to see straight. Despite the large amount of alcohol he'd consumed thus far, he was still, painfully, devastatingly sober. Or maybe it was just his mood ruining his buzz before it even got a chance to set in. That would be so 'Erik'; the awkward fucker that he is. He didn't know what else he could do.

The only option left to him was to make some sort of public demonstration. Yeah. Unfortunately, no one would come to protest in New York Times Square in the pouring down rain, just to get Erik's boyfriend back. So… that was out. Something romantic? He knew where Charles worked after all, despite the fact that Charles seemed to have informed his colleagues to not let him in forever and ever amen.

He sighed again. Flowers? Not good enough. Buy a cheaper, manufactured engagement ring and force his way through to propose to him? He shuddered into his beer; No, the ring had to be perfect. He designed it to be perfect, and he still hadn't saved up enough to get the guy in Argentina to even _consider_ making it yet.

God, he was so bad at romance.

And there was the problem of getting in to him anyway; the plan would most likely fail, he was an engineer, not a fucking strategist. There were too many extraneous variables to consider. No… It had to be something romantic, but understated… and heartbreaking enough to get him on national television so Raven would see it and inform her darling brother about it.

Or even better, on radio, because Charles actually listens to the radio. The bar was far too loud, he couldn't think; and no matter how many times he demanded the other drinkers to be quiet, goddammit, he needed to get his future husband back, they never listened. Or got even louder.

Spiteful pricks.

Growling, he set down his piss-water and stumbled out of the bar. Huh. Maybe he was drunker than he thought. Rubbing his forehead absently, he staggered down the road, trying to force his legs to cooperate with his brain and walk in a straight-fucking-line. But to no avail.

He just wandered; staring at the picture he had of Charles, still in his wallet - the only proof that he was real, and not some figment of his imagination. He'd dreamed of their wedding since the day Charles had moved in and settled into his life like he was always meant to be there.

It was to be a winter wedding and it would be snowing, purely because Charles _loved_ the snow, just as much as he loved his Earl Grey tea with three sugars and a dash of milk, with a packet of bourbons and a Mills & Boon movie playing on the TV. Which was a lot. And though Erik thought the snow was nothing more than an irritating weather pattern, designed to make driving harder and your socks wet, Erik loved Charles who loved the snow. So a snowy wedding it would be.

They would have black silk trimmed with white draped across the tables and pure white silk for the chairs with thick red ribbons tied around the backs, there would be a simple centrepiece on each table; fresh red rose petals with six small tea-lights in crystal holders, and on some of the bigger tables, a crystal vase overflowing with white lilies – Charles' favourite flower. Charles would wear a white tux, and himself a traditional black and he would wear a kippah, just for his Mama, "to uphold at least some of the traditions of his people" as she says, ignoring the fact that he hasn't been a practising Jew for years.

They would stand under the white, silk chuppah, which would be trimmed with fresh, red roses, and exchange the wedding rings Erik designed, to match Charles' engagement ring. After that, they would kiss, sweet and perfect, like Charles himself. Erik would have them bound together by the wrist with red silk, just so he can stay close to Charles for the whole event (and he knows that would be impractical when it came to dancing with others and using the bathroom, so they'd probably take it off after the actual ceremony, but a man can dream), then they would finally be married when Erik breaks the glass, like in a traditional Jewish wedding, and Charles would be his. Forever, until death do they part.

But he would never have that with Charles now. And if he couldn't have it with Charles, he wouldn't have it with anyone.


	2. Chapter 2

He'd been walking for at least an hour in his daydreams, and daylight was approaching, with the realisation of where he was. He found himself on 42nd street, outside the library where he met Charles. A thick wave of nostalgia hit him, causing him to stagger, and slump onto the marble steps. He crawled up to a pillar (an insistence of his own – Foster didn't understand that the overhanging second story actually had to be supported by something. Imbecile.) and leant against it, closing his eyes against the onslaught of exhausted tears threatening to escape.

He was dozing lightly for half an hour – ignoring his complaining back – when the perfect idea hit him. Charles was a nostalgic, romantic guy; there was a chance – small, but then again, this was a pretty public spot – that Charles would come back here to remember their meeting, or get a book, or whatever. So… if he did… he would be here. Waiting.

He grinned and jumped to his feet, sprinting down 42nd street to find somewhere which sold some sort of supplies. What would he need? Sleeping bag? Food?

Eventually he arrived at what looked like a good store and bought the first few things he laid his hands on, eager to get back to his library. Not that it was _his_ library, per say… though he felt he should have some sort of ownership of the building, considering he made sure it would actually stand up and everything. But rules would be rules. He'd been gone from his spot for twenty minutes when he finally got back, and it pleased him to see that nothing much had changed. Settling down, he unrolled his sleeping bag and pulled out the piece of cardboard he'd picked up from a dumpster.

He carried a drywipe marker everywhere with him for when inspiration struck him. It was a habit he picked up from Charles, who carried a surplus amount of pens, notebooks and scraps of paper in every one of his tweed jacket pockets; many having half written equations, notes or doodles (of sharks mainly – he'd always insisted that they reminded him of Erik, though Erik never really understood why) scrawled all over them.

The little quirk had quickly bled through to Erik, and it wasn't long before he had just as many pens or scrap designs for buildings balled up in his suits. It came in handy in situations like these (not that this happened to him often), and he tore off the lid of the marker with his teeth before scribbling in big block capitals on the cardboard 'IF YOU SEE THIS MAN, CAN YOU TELL HIM WHERE I AM?'

He gave himself a congratulatory little smile, commending his genius – By his calculation, the sign increased the probability of Charles finding out that Erik was waiting for him by 16.3%. Give or take .45.

Satisfied, he settled against his pillar – that was definitely his pillar; it wouldn't be there if he hadn't insisted, and if he hadn't insisted, there would be no library. Foster might as well have tried to build the thing roof first. Fucking, architects – and contented to wait until Charles inevitably showed up.

_5 hours later; 1:34pm_  
"How do we know the man you're after, if you don't show a picture?" Aw, shit. _3:02pm_ Pigeons were beginning to gather, and they were eyeing him hungrily. Erik thought that he should perhaps sit on his shopping bag of food. _3:39pm_ One bird seemed to be braver than the others, and hopped right up to him, eyeballing his food with feral eyes. "Piss off; don't you have Mary Poppins to feed you?" It didn't answer.

_5:16pm_  
It started to rain.

Fuck.

_7:32pm_  
His luck could not get any worse. It could not. Period. The rain had gotten worse. He was so. Cold. And despite being sheltered under the awning next to his pillar, he couldn't save the bottom of his sleeping bag. So his feet were fucking freezing, his cardboard sign was soggy, and there had been _no_ sign of Charles.

But he wasn't going to move. He had to stay here and wait for his fiancé-to-be – he would beg for his forgiveness if he had to.

_8:17pm_  
A kid walking past had chucked a couple of dollars next to his sleeping bag; thinking he was homeless. Erik called the guy back and stuffed the money back in his pocket, explaining that he didn't need his money, he's waiting for his future-husband, but thanks anyway.

The boy had looked at him as if he'd just sprouted a second head.

The idiot. He didn't understand. Of course he wasn't broke – he was just broken-hearted.

_8:31pm_  
If it was even possible, the rain got harder, and Erik could feel the beginnings of a cold or fever in his throat. He swallowed defiantly against it, succumbing to sleep in his soaking wet sleeping bag despite the early time.

_Sometime in the early morning, it's too dark - and Erik is too fucking cold and sick to see his watch face._  
He was prodded awake by a thick, strong finger. It was a prod he knew well, and he was almost relieved to see his self-proclaimed, semi-arch-nemesis (but only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Long story.) Leaning his bearded face over him. "the fuck you doin' down there, bub?" Logan asked, and because it was technically a Tuesday, he smiled weakly.

"Waiting for Charles."

"What?"

"If he changes his mind, he'll come here."

Logan grunted, "What gave you that idea?" Erik paused for a second, contemplating, then shrugged. It didn't really matter anyway, the plan was great.

"Right," he sighed, like a put-upon mama-bear "c'mon you can't stay here," he said, grasping at Erik's upper arm.

"No!" Nausea was creeping up on him, and he was beginning to think he was going to die before Charles had even got to hear him out.

Logan growled a rumbling sigh, "How long are you gonna wait until he comes here?"

Erik squared his shoulders in his soaked sleeping bag, feeling a little like a drowned rat. "A day. A month. A year. Whichever." The other man pinched the bridge of his nose.

After a moment, he sighed and said, "fine. See ya' around, bub."

"Bye." Erik watched him walk away, trying to discern some of his angry mumbling before snuggling into his sleeping bag again, waiting for sleep to return.

_6:04am_  
He did sleep eventually; fitfully and uncomfortably. His eyes watered with a mixture of tiredness, frustration and sickness, his throat was raw and his nose was running almost constantly. He felt rather pathetic if he was going to be honest; why would Charles want someone who can't even stand a night in the cold on his own.

Rubbing his fingers together, he imagined how it would go; how long he'd have to wait until Charles came, how he would find out… Maybe he'd be famous; sitting and waiting for his one true love. Like something out of a movie. Maybe there would be a film made about him or something. It would be called 'The Man Who Can't Be Moved'. Maybe he'd be on the news, and by freak accident, Charles would see him, and know that he was doing it just for him. And he'd come and throw himself into Erik's arms, his ear resting above his heart, which beat just for him. And Erik would sooth Charles' apologetic tears, and cradle him lovingly; assuring him that he was all he ever wanted, and that he would never cheat on him. Ever. Erik would whisper _I love you, Ich liebe dich, I love you_ into his ear over and over until he believed him, and never left him alone again.

Just for him.

Frustration and a heavy ache began to build in his chest, growing to a suffocating pressure pricking at the back of his eyes, causing a single tear to roll down his cheek.

"So he was telling the truth."Erik blinked balefully up at a bundle of amused, but concerned blonde.

"Raven." He greeted.

"You look…" _Homeless?_ "…Different."

"Thanks." He jeered, as sarcastically as he could manage with a blocked nose, runny-eyes and having hot and cold flushes.

"You're welcome. And just how long have you been there exactly?" Erik pouted at her _I-think-you're-a-fucking-idiot_ tone.

"Since early yesterday morning. But I was walking around and stuff since the afternoon before that." Charles' sister gave him a look he couldn't begin to decipher; it was a kind of squinty look, but, sad?

"Why are you here, Erik?" Her voice had gone soft, and he detected traces of pity.

This is what he'd been waiting for, he would tell her everything – how much he loved her brother, how he would do anything for him, and she would pass the message on to the man himself, and all would be right again. He opened his mouth to begin, but instead of words, came a hacking cough which shuddered his whole body. Eurgh. He felt like he was vomiting up his lungs.

"Jesus Christ, Erik! You've made yourself sick. I'm taking you home."

"NO!" He shouted, ignoring the startled looks of the other pedestrians,

"I can't go! I have to wait for Charles! I have to tell him how much I love him, and how special he was! He needs to know about The Ring, and the snow, and the chuppah, and-and-"

"Woah, woah! Back up. The _Ring?_"

"Yes! I was working late because I was saving up to buy him the ring I designed." He was clinging desperately to his pillar now, wincing as Raven cut the circulation in his arm with her iron grip. She was lucky he needed her to get to Charles, cause if he didn't; he would be sucking the brain out of her nostrils with a fucking straw.

"_Ring for what, Erik?_" Her voice was practically murderous by this point, and she wasn't the only one getting angry.

"I wanted to marry him!" He shouted in her face, getting a fierce satisfaction at her stunned expression.

"You… _what?_"

Wait.

That wasn't Raven.

He turned slowly, like a deer caught in the headlights, to stare at a pair of cerulean eyes and a too-red mouth gaping right back at him.

_Charles._


	3. Chapter 3

"Guh…" Yes, well. That was intelligent. Way to go, Erik.

Charles, Goddamn him, looked just as fantastic as ever; the thick cashmere scarf Erik had bought him tied carelessly around his neck, and chestnut locks flopping perfectly into his eyes. "Erik?" He sniffed pathetically, internally cursing his watery eyes and runny nose.

"Yeah?" He croaked, trying – so, so hard – to look a little less like a tragic death scene waiting to happen.

"I-Wha…"He closed his mouth, pressing his lips together with bright eyes. Erik watched Charles' Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. He waited. "You- You look-"

"Like shit?" He supplied, tone biting, but miserable all at once.

"Well, yeah." Yes, thank you, Charles, that's really what he needed to here right now. "But I'm glad to see you." Oh, well, he can live with that.

Erik grunted and turned his eyes to his knees, avoiding Charles' questioning gaze. There was a long moment of tense silence, where even Raven fiddled nervously with the cuff of her jacket, wondering if she should leave. Eventually, it ended with a heavy sigh from Charles as he crouched in front of Erik, placing a hand on his knee and a finger under his chin, tilting Erik's sulking face to his. "I'm taking you home now." His tone brooked no argument; not that Erik ever wanted to argue with him again.

He was helped out of his soggy sleeping bag, and led towards the library car park, leaving Raven to collect what was left behind. Being with Charles again made his chest feel weightless and his head even lighter than before, as if a great burden had been lifted with his very presence; but the sudden lift in mood was accompanied by a wave of dizziness, and he found himself leaning on a patient Charles as they walked to the car.

After dumping Erik's pitiful camping supplies into the boot, Raven climbed into the driving seat, not even commenting on Charles sliding in beside Erik on the backseat. Erik was very surprised at that, blinking with bleary confusion at him while Charles just smiled, something unfathomable and sad in his eyes as he placed a hand gently on Erik's thigh, squeezing it with a soft, quiet reassurance. He felt himself smile tiredly as he struggled to suppress the shudders made by his rapidly warming body, staving off sleep which seemed to have collapsed on him like a ton of bricks.

He blinked awake every few minutes, wrestling with his sleep-blurred vision to focus of Charles. "We need to talk," he tried to say, only to have it come out as a garbled sigh. Charles seemed to understand though. He always understood everything but the obvious. That was what had got them in this mess in the first place.

"Sleep now," Charles whispered, his voice sounding closer to Erik than before. "I'll be there when you wake up." Good. Belatedly, his brain registered that his head was resting on something warm and solid and his nose was pressed against hot, silky skin. A strong, arm wound around his shoulders, holding him in a comforting embrace which was both painfully familiar, and had been distressingly absent for weeks.

Was it possible that he and Charles were cuddling? Why was he missing this? He struggled to sit up to understand what the hell was going on, and made an unhappy noise when he found he couldn't; too bogged down with sleepy sickness. He felt slightly mollified when he felt fingers card through his hair, accompanied with soft, soothing noises. He cursed his traitorous body as he slipped into sleep.

oOo

He opened his eyes to his own darkened room, sweaty and close to vomiting. He lay where he was for a moment, willing the sickly feeling in his stomach to subside. After a few minutes he sat up with a pained groan. It took a moment for him to remember how he'd got there, and the memory of the previous day's events came with the realisation that he was alone. He pushed himself to his feet, and stumbled out of his bedroom.

"Charles?" He called, "Charles? Are you here?" No answer. Great. He didn't know how he felt about the knowledge that his ex had just took him home and left without a word; especially after said ex found out that Erik wanted to marry him.

If that was the reaction to something so minor, he was definitely not going to let slip that he secretly wished they could make babies together.

Groaning, he retreated back into his bedroom, not bothering to close the door as he trudged into the bathroom, shrugging off his boxers and threadbare grey tee-shirt he'd been using as pyjamas for years.

After turning on the shower, he turned to face the mirror and gazed dolefully at his reflection only breaking his stare when the mirror had fogged so much that only his blurred outline was visible.

He climbed into the shower and hissed when the hot water connected with his chilled skin. Tilting his face towards the ceiling, he quietly took in the warm water rolling over his body, choking on the rising sadness in his chest and not bothering to stop his tears mixing with the shower stream.

It wasn't clear how long he stayed there; time seemed to have no meaning in the mugginess of the shower, but eventually, he paused in his reminiscence as he heard the front door open and shut. He wiped furiously at his eyes to clear them of water, listening intently for anymore sounds of someone in the house.

Footsteps made their way across the apartment making him jump out of the shower, and cross the bathroom, grabbing the first thing that came to hand. As the unknown intruder came closer, Erik closed his hand around the handle of the door, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

The door opened before he could even surprise the trespasser, and Erik ended up stumbling through the now open door and into a man he didn't think he'd ever see again.

"Erik? What are you doing up?" Charles asked looking up at Erik and immediately realising he was naked. His eyes strayed downwards almost involuntarily before snapping back up to Erik's face with a deep blush.

"What are you doing here?" Erik asked, ignoring the curl of arousal Charles' blush made in his stomach. He was aware he was staring, but he couldn't seem to stop; almost afraid that Charles would disappear if he took his eyes off him.

Charles' face fell, his yes becoming unsure and he hesitated for a moment. "Do you want me to leave?" Panic welled in Erik's chest, and his eyes widened.

"_No!_ No, no," He began, "No, I – You can stay."

Charles smiled uncertainly. "The fridge was empty, so I went shopping. Oh – and I got some Pepto-Bismol; you're medicine supply is entirely non-existent…" He trailed off, leaving them in an uncomfortable silence. "Um, I'm just going to put these away and um… You can… get some clothes on." Charles blush deepened, and he scowled then left the room.

Erik's head dropped into his hands with a sigh, frustration building in his chest until he felt like he wanted to scream. He had a feeling the day was going to go horribly, horribly wrong.

oOo

Charles had made breakfast. He'd _made breakfast._ As if the last few months had never happened. He was sat in his spot at the table that _they_ used to own, eating pancakes on plates _they_ used to own. Together. It was kind of surreal; a picture of the past, the present and what could have been the future all layered on top of one another to create… _this._ What even was _this?_ What was he _doing?_

Erik sighed heavily, placing down his cutlery, "Charles-"

"Did you really want to marry me?" He interrupted, his voice breathy and his eyes wide and just a little desperate looking. Erik couldn't help but blush. But it was a manly blush. A very manly blush, goddammit.

"Yes." He replied whilst looking Charles straight in the eyes, trying so, so hard not to let the fact he was blushing like a fucking virgin put him off. So, not a manly blush. But he could salvage the situation – right?

Charles' eyes widened more, and his face grew sad and confused. "Emma said-"

"Oh dear God, you listened to a woman who's been desperate to sleep with me since I arrived in America? What am I saying – of course you did."

"Erik-"

"This always happens; she is _always_ behind the shit that goes wrong."

"Erik-"

"I am gonna fire that icy bitch into the hottest, furthest reaches of hell, and I'm-"

"Erik!" Erik closed his mouth with a snap. Charles took a deep, calming breath through his nose. "Emma said she saw you with another man… A man she thought you were sleeping with." There was a huge lump in his throat, made bigger by anger and frustration – How _dare_ she tell his future husband that shit. How _dare_ she make him believe he was second best?

"Why the hell did you listen to her, Charles?" He asked heavily, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger. It was the brunette's turn to blush, and look down at his half-eaten pancake, pushing it around his plate with his fork.

"He owns his own business, and makes a ton of money. I don't really get a steady salary with what I do, and I have a block on my inheritance until Mum dies… Plus, he was hot… I thought – well –"

Charles looked uncertain and distressed – time to bring out the compassionate boyfriend card; something that never failed him when he had no fucking clue what he should be doing. "Charles," He asked, getting slowly to his feet, like he was approaching a wild animal, "again; why the hell did you listen to her?"

He made sure his voice was gentle as he knelt on the floor at his lover's feet. Charles looked like he was about to cry; compassionate boyfriend card told him to place his hand comfortingly on Charles' knee.

"You were always working late," Charles whispered. Erik had to lean in to hear, "When you came in you wouldn't even talk to me, and you always left before I got up; so I never saw you." He sniffled and Erik gave his knee a gentle squeeze, "We hadn't had sex in nearly a month, and I knew there had to be something wrong because we used to have sex nearly every day. Sometimes twice."

Charles hiccupped, tears now flowing freely down his cheeks. "Then Emma came to me," He continued, "She said she was worried and had been for a while now. She said she didn't want to see me get played. She's known you for years, Erik; much, much longer than I have and she told me that it was a miracle our relationship had even gotten this far – that usually, you got bored and ran off with another man." Erik growled, anger slowly burning a path from his stomach. "I didn't believe her at first. But then she told me about a guy in the Upper East Side, who she'd seen you with a few times – she gave me the address and everything – and I- I went there one day, and saw you in his window, smiling and laughing and-"

"Charles," he interrupted firmly, this had gone far enough. "That guy is called Azazel Rasputin, he is- was – my contact to the guy in Argentina who I was asking to make my designs for an engagement ring."

"But you were laughing and-" "He's a funny guy once you get past the weird part of him that enjoys laying out in the sun until he's the colour of a frickin' tomato. Besides," He let his voice go soft, and he rubbed the hand across Charles' knee gently. "He has a wife who he runs his business with; Angel Salvadore."

Charles stared at him for a moment, as if he couldn't quite wrap his head around what he was hearing. "He's married?"

Erik chuckled, "You know it's not that uncommon."

"No, I- So… You were working late…"

"To save up for the handmade engagement ring," He finished with a nod, "then, hopefully, the perfect wedding too."

"Erik…"

"I left early in the morning to get some designs done before all the interns came in and made a racket, and the idiots that are supposed to be intelligent arrived to hassle me with their problems for the group designs. And the times I was home, I was too tired to talk, let alone have sex; all I wanted to do was curl up in bed and hold you until I had to start all over again."

Charles just stared at him in teary, wide-eyed silence, "I love you, Charles, I really do."

The tears spilled over the brunette's eyelashes, and a poorly concealed sob came from the back of his throat. The sight tore at Erik; he wanted to scoop the other man into his arms, and hold him as he cried – but he wasn't sure he was allowed.

They sat there awkwardly for a moment – Charles sobbing into his hands whilst Erik knelt at his feet, a hand resting uncomfortably on one of his knees. After a tense, never ending moment, Charles slid off the chair to kneel before Erik, and leant towards him, reaching up to wrap his arms around Erik's neck. Rejoicing in the chance to touch him again – to be _allowed_ to touch him again, Erik threw his own arms around Charles' middle, pulling him against himself so they were flush.

For nearly ten minutes Charles wept into Erik's chest, soaking his shirt, whilst Erik carded gentle fingers through his lover's hair, whispering endearments and "I love you's" gently into his ear. Eventually, Charles stretched slightly to place a watery, but tender kiss against Erik's neck.

"I love you too, Erik."


End file.
